Guilt by Association

by Kelvin L. Reed

CHAPTER SIX

  Jayson jotted down a few notes on a legal pad while Samira Rahmani and Omar Anderson, two assistant district attorneys, outlined their ostensibly ironclad case against Brian Stone. The meeting, the first serious discussion between the combatants-to-be, took place at the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, which like so many other court-related buildings, occupied a space in downtown Boston. Because she worked the prestigious Homicide Unit, Rahmani enjoyed the privilege of a larger office than most of her colleagues. However, it appeared much smaller due to a score of white boxes stacked throughout the room.

  One end of Rahmani’s desk hugged the wall, so the lawyers claimed the three available sides. Rahmani sat behind the desk, Anderson took the spot to her right and Jayson made himself comfortable in a sturdy but old wooden chair opposite Rahmani. She and Jayson drank Iranian tea from small, clear glasses with no handles, as was the Iranian custom. Anderson drank from a twenty-ounce bottle of distilled water.

  Jayson listened politely. He had met his client for the first time only a week before and still didn’t consider himself quite up to speed. He didn’t mind Rahmani and Anderson “wolfing”—as he called it—about their case. Such posturing was standard, part of the attorney negotiating game. Opposing counsel delineated why each would beat the crap out of the other in court. After exhausting themselves with saber rattling they would frequently negotiate a mutually agreeable plea. In this case, however, Jayson offered very little rebuttal to his counterparts’ admonishments. He knew they held a huge advantage and thought it best to obtain rather than divulge much information.

  Jayson had learned in previous dealings with her that Rahmani could be very clever and resourceful. She had the highest conviction rate in the Unit and possessed a seemingly inexhaustible supply of last minute tricks. Still, he liked her personally and considered the handsome, thirty-five-year-old woman, who grew up in America, to be a very worthy opponent.

  He held a less favorable opinion of her partner. Anderson just seemed to have been born with a dark cloud over his bald head. The man fit the stereotype of the crusading but self-absorbed prosecutor whose public cries of moralistic outrage masked burning political ambition. Rather than bonding with him as a brother—a fellow African American male attorney—Jayson found Anderson to be sanctimonious and judgmental toward those who didn’t share his views on race and religion.

  Rahmani studied a thick, open folder as she finished explaining why Stone couldn’t escape justice. She closed the folder and after a few seconds of silence, glanced at Anderson, who nodded, apparently indicating a mutual understanding between them. Rahmani cleared her throat. “In spite of the fact this is a slam dunk,” she said, “we’re willing to let your client plead to felony murder two.”

  Jayson slowly sat more upright. He had anticipated the offer but decided to stay with his “less-said-the-better” strategy. “Murder two,” he repeated.

  “We’ve got you both by the short hairs,” Anderson chimed in, “but a lot of people don’t want this whole thing dragged back up again.”

  “Face it, Jayson, this one’s a lost cause anyway,” Rahmani added. “We’re just trying to save you a lot of trouble.” The woman folded her hands, displaying fingers adorned with burgundy nail polish, and rested them on her desk.

  Jayson put his right hand over his heart. “That’s so kind of you, Samira. That’s one thing I’m always telling my friends about going up against you and Omar here.” He tilted his head in the man’s direction. “You two are always working hard to save me a lot of trouble.” He took a sip of the bitter tea, placed it on the desk and regretted having declined his hostess’s earlier offer of two sugar lumps rather than one.

  “Believe me, Jayson, Samira’s giving you a gift,” Anderson insisted. “If it were up to me your client wouldn’t get shit.”

  “But it’s not up to you, Omar, is it?” Jayson asked. He knew he shouldn’t needle the man, but couldn’t help himself. The thirty-eight-year-old assistant district attorney seemed to be stuck in the passenger seat when it came to trying big cases, which he attributed to racism within the District Attorney’s Office. Jayson believed it had more to do with his temperament and personality.

  Anderson adjusted the gold, wire-framed glasses on his hairless face and scowled. “You don’t have an ace up your sleeve this time, Jayson. There’s no ignorant jury for you to fool.”

  Jayson smirked. “It’s interesting you used the words ignorant and fool, Omar.”

  “Now cut it out you two,” Rahmani said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “Well, he started it,” Anderson whined.

  “I’m sorry, my brother,” Jayson moaned, his voice laced with exaggerated sympathy. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “As one black man to another, I don’t understand how you can live with yourself,” Anderson said. “Stone’s the devil himself.”

  “Well, don’t strain yourself trying to understand too much, Omar, m’man.”

  “I said stop it!” Rahmani commanded.

  Jayson laughed. “Okay, I’m done. Really.” He reached for his tea, sniffed it and set it back on the desk. “Seriously, according to my client, you wouldn’t budge an inch. It was first degree all the way. Why so generous all of a sudden?” He turned his profile to Rahmani and cut his eyes in her direction. “It wouldn’t be you’re hiding something, would it?”

  Anderson stood. He tugged on the suit jacket covering his nearly six-feet frame and stepped to his partner’s side of the desk. “I told you he wouldn’t be reasonable, Samira. Let’s just bury that child killer with all we’ve got and put that son of a bitch under the jail for life.”

  Rahmani turned in her chair and pushed the thick hair away from her eye. She leaned back to address Anderson. “Believe me, I’m only sorry we’re not in Iran. Because if we were, he’d been put to death by now.”

  Jayson smiled. “Probably, but would this have been before or after an Iranian court put some poor unmarried girl to death for having gotten pregnant—after they tortured her into recanting her claim that she had been raped?”

  Rahmani turned and smiled. “Touché, counselor. Now that we’ve all gotten in our obligatory jabs, can we get back to business?”

  Jayson grabbed his glass of tea and, in a gesture of good will, took another sip. “I’ve got my gun in my holster but I’m keeping my hand on it, just in case.” He glanced at Anderson. “Again, why the offer?”

  Anderson scowled again. “What difference does it make?”

  Rahmani leaned forward. “The mayor and the DA have been talking,” she confessed. “They think a long, drawn out trial would be bad for the city’s image, you know? Those clips of white Boston parents in the seventies shouting at a busload of black kids still occasionally play on the news even though it happened literally generations ago.”

  Jayson nodded. “I see. So I’m to convince my client to plead guilty to murder two so the city of Boston doesn’t get a black eye.” He chuckled. “Or white eye, depending on how you look at it.”

  “Yeah,” Anderson said. “I guess the powers that be have been calculating how much the whole thing would cost the taxpayers: extra security during the trial, the trial itself, multiple appeals, you know. I guess they think it would save everybody some serious money.”

  “Hmm-hmm,” Jayson replied. “Saving money is good for the city, but it’d be my client rotting in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “C’mon, Jayson,” Rahmani said. “You know he’d probably get out in twenty or twenty-five years. He’s what? Twenty-four? He’d be in his forties or fifties; not too old to still salvage something out of his life.”

  Anderson pointed at Jayson. “That’s more than he deserves. The little Bradley girl doesn’t have a life to look forward to.”

  Jayson rubbed his chin. “I respect your offer. I’ve discussed this possibility with my client when I met him last week, and I don’t think he’d be interested. You’ve been sitting on this
for nineteen months or so. It’s still pretty early in the game for us.”

  Anderson pointed again. “It’s a goddamn good deal. If I were you I’d go to my client and convince him to take it.”

  Jayson took a deep breath. “Well, we’ll think it over but we’re still looking over the evidence. I want to talk to the arresting officers, pour through the stuff you gave his PDs some more. I’ve got a couple of motions in mind, you know the drill.”

  Rahmani nodded. “I understand, Jayson. We can probably keep the offer on the table for a little while.”

  “Yeah, but we’re not gonna fuck around with you two for long,” Anderson announced, spitting his words.

  Jayson turned to his left. “What’s your problem, Omar? You still pissing in your pants because of that Clemente case?”

  “Your client killed that boy and you know it.”

  “I don’t know that and neither do you—and obviously the jury didn’t think so.”

  “Now don’t you two start up again.”

  “That jury was fooled by your slick talk,” Anderson insisted.

  Jayson pointed at himself. “I’m not the one who hung his whole case on that baseball.”

  Anderson shook his finger. “A boy—a young black boy—was killed and the murderer got away with it because he had a crafty lawyer who—”

  “Did his homework, unlike the ADA who handled the case.”

  “You arrogant ass shyster!”

  Rahmani stood. “Omar, why don’t you let me talk to Jayson for a couple of minutes alone?” She opened her hand, gesturing at the door. “Please?”

  Anderson frowned, apparently embarrassed. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t do any harm. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I could use a bit of fresh air anyway.” He stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

  Rahmani stepped around her desk and stopped a few inches from where Jayson sat. She leaned against the desk and folded her arms. “Jayson, you’re not like this with anyone else but Omar. What is it between you two?”

  Jayson shrugged. “I don’t know. The guy just bugs me—and he ought to lighten up on that aftershave.”

  “You know he’s going through a tough time. Why don’t you give him a break?”

  Jayson leaned back in his chair. “Hey, nobody forced him to marry that woman.” He scowled. “Falling in love with the sister of a victim in a case he’s trying? What was she, a waitress?” He rolled his eyes. “Now don’t get me wrong, she was about as fine as they come, but hell, the woman was what—twenty-three or something? Anybody with eyes could’ve told him he was asking for trouble.”

  Rahmani sighed. “I know, but it destroyed him when she left. He’s trying to put his life back together.” She walked past Jayson to the other side of the room and inspected the plants sitting in front of the window. “You men, you’re all alike. Thinking with the little head instead of the big one all the time.”

  Jayson sensed pain in her voice. He stood and reached for the two-year-old photograph on the desk. The glowing faces caused him to smile: Rahmani, with her long hair uncovered as always, her husband, and their then four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter, during happier times. He gently lowered the picture. “Why don’t you tell Amir to cut down on those business trips and stay home more with his lovely wife and kids?”

  Rahmani spoke but continued to face her plants. “He’s too obsessed with building his empire to listen to a woman, unless she’s looks like…” She paused for a few seconds and shook her head. “He’s still an Iranian man, even if he has spent most of his life here.” She spun around and returned to her official demeanor. “About Stone; it’s a good deal, Jayson. We’ve got him by the balls and you know it. All that racist garbage, the map, the church bulletin. He’s toast.” She strolled past Jayson to the other side of the desk but remained standing. “You’ve pleaded guilty before when you were dealt low cards.”

  Jayson nodded. “True, but I haven’t turned over all my cards yet to see what I’ve got.”

  “Alright then, counselor,” Rahmani said, her voice indicating the onset of more “wolfing.” “But if you don’t take this offer soon, Stone’s gonna go down hard. Then as Omar would say, it’s life without parole in max bending over for a few of your biggest, meanest brothers.”

  “I’ll talk to my client and get back to you,” Jayson replied.

  “Hey, off the record. How do you feel, representing this racist bastard?”

  Jayson shrugged. “You know me, I never let my personal feelings interfere with doing my job. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another defendant you have to prove guilty.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  “Let me add this,” Rahmani said. “When that bomb went off two years ago the feds used it as an excuse to pick up dozens of my people—and other Middle Eastern men—for questioning under the guise of looking for terrorists.”

  “I heard,” Jayson said. He grabbed his briefcase and walked to the door. “It wasn’t right.”

  “Well,” Rahmani said, “I’m just letting you know I might not be as wound up as Omar, but if we go to trial, for all the trouble he caused, I’m gonna make it my personal mission to send your client up for the rest of his worthless life.”

  Jayson opened the door and made a half-turn to respond. “Well then, we can’t say you didn’t warn us.”

  •

  Twenty minutes after his meeting at the district attorney’s office, Jayson put his mobile phone to his ear. “Tenika, speak up, will ya? I’m downtown, not standing next to you in the office, you know.” He enjoyed the relief the multistoried, cold cement parking garage offered from the warm June afternoon sun. He walked briskly, clutching his phone in one hand and his briefcase in the other, but continued inspecting his surroundings to ensure his personal safety. “Tenika, what’s the matter with you? Why you sounding so strange? Is everything all right?” Suddenly all kinds of wild thoughts entered his mind. What if some disgruntled former client had just gotten out of prison, come to the office armed with a gun and taken everyone—”

  “Can you hear me now?” Tenika asked.

  “Yeah, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m in your office with the door closed,” Tenika said.

  “What for? Why aren’t you at your desk?”

  “There’s a woman in the waiting area.”

  “What woman?”

  “A slutty looking woman with a slight Spanish accent. She’s wearing a slight skirt to match.” An uncomfortable silence followed her description. “Jayson, you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  Tenika added more. “You know, the one who’s been calling here for the past month. The one you’ve been giving the bum’s rush to. She said her name’s Leslie.”

  Jayson closed his eyes and groaned as if a sharp object had struck him in the chest. “I’ll be a son of a…” he whispered. “What did she say?”

  “She just said she wants to see you.”

  “Did she say what it was about?”

  “She said you’d know.”

  “Didn’t you tell her I wasn’t in?”

  “No, I told her you were in your office taking a nap,” Tenika answered, her voice peppered with playful sarcasm. “Of course I told her you weren’t in.”

  “And?”

  “She said she’ll wait until you get back.”

  “Damn it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Tenika asked. “I mean, she’s not dangerous or nothing, is she? I mean, she’s not gonna whip out a gat and go crazy, is she?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Jayson replied. He reached his Jaguar and paused at the door to consider his options. “Um, tell her I won’t be coming back to the office today. Then call my five o’clock appointment and reschedule. If you can’t reach him, ask Connie to stay late and talk to him. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Then what? What about this Leslie character?”

  “Let her sit
there,” Jayson answered. “She doesn’t have an appointment so no one owes her anything. If you can’t reach my five o’clock and he shows, can you stay and close up with Connie?”

  “Sure, but Victor’s here. I could ask him.”

  Jayson imagined Connie finally getting Victor alone in the office. “No, I’d prefer if you stayed with Connie. She might be, um, a little nervous about being alone with a man.”

  “Ha!” Tenika laughed. “Since when?”

  “Would you just do as I ask, please?”

  “Okay,” Tenika said. “But you know, Jayson, go ahead and fire me for saying this, but I thought you were different. Not like other men.”

  Jayson could hear the profound disappointment and loss of respect for him in the woman’s voice, but had neither the time nor the inclination to explain himself. “Call me back after she leaves. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks. Bye.” He pressed the button on his phone and ended the call. “This can’t be frickin’ happening to me!” he exclaimed.

  * * * * *